


Sunshine

by artitech



Series: Rarepairs [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys In Love, Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Light Angst, M/M, Napping, No Beta we die like Kings, Rain, Strong!Hinata, Swimming, fisherman!hinata, gardener!suga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24058387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artitech/pseuds/artitech
Summary: The first time I see him, it’s through the grape vine that climbs the trellis on the side of my garden.Suga's had a modest, quiet life, but everything changes when He shows up.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Sugawara Koushi, Hinata Shouyou/Sugawara Koushi
Series: Rarepairs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801342
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at 1 in the morning. Needed some fluff. Enjoy!  
> -art

The first time I see him, it’s through the grape vine that climbs the trellis on the side of my garden. He doesn’t see me; I’m tending to the soil and only the tails of his coat flicker past my vision before he’s gone. I don’t call out to him, even though he’s trespassing in my part of the woods. Perhaps he’s a newcomer.

The second time I see him, I’m sipping lavender and honey tea inside my bay window. It’s raining. He doesn’t have a hat on, despite the rain, and his orange hair is plastered to the sides of his face. He plucks a bunch of grapes from my trellis and then ducks over to my mailbox. He leaves an envelope inside and dashes away. When the rain stops, I open my mailbox and bring the envelope inside. I retrieve my letter opener from the study and unseal it. It contains a small sum of money and an apology. I don’t understand the apology. He had the option not to steal my grapes.

The third time I see him, it is sunny and I’m taking lunch in the bay windows, which are now cast open. I have lathered my toast with strawberry preserves and have some fresh cheeses from the farmer down the forest path to compliment it. He isn’t in a hurry as he walks past my home, in fact, he leans onto my picket fence (the paint is chipping, I really should fix that) and calls out to me.

“Good afternoon,” he says. I nod to him. He chatters for a bit about the excessive sunny weather as of late, and mentions that the water in the creek is receding. He says he catches crayfish. I decide he likely lives nearby. I let him chatter for a while before inquiring about his constant trespassing. He laughs it off and invites himself to the other side of the fence (which he hops over, crushing a few of my flowers. I try not to grimace). He tosses me a small bag, which I catch, and then he heads off, promising to return, with flecks of paint clinging to his trousers.

Later, I open the bag, and find seeds for some herbs I do not yet have. 

The next time I see him, he has a basket tied to his waist with a stick and a cloth. I offer to assist him, but he waves me off and instead asks me to join him to wherever he’s going. I hesitate before agreeing, and he gives me time to change into some proper clothing (long sleeves to avoid bugs, a hat for the sun, boots up to my knees in case of mud). We head out and cross the creek to a field I haven’t visited before. He points to a corner, where his house has been built. It’s a small place. We don’t go over there. Instead, unties his basket and pulls a blanket from it. He lays it out in a place where the grass is shorter, and beckons me to sit with him. I do. We share a meal of buttery crayfish and fresh, airy bread. He has a bottle of hard cider, too, which we share as the eve begins to fall. He escorts me back to my home.

Perhaps I’m a bit fond of him.

I see him every day that week. We share a meal each day. I send him home the third day with a bottle of wine from my grapes and a jar of mixed preserves. He leaves gifts in my mailbox when he thinks I’m not looking. Most days, it’s a tea I haven’t heard of or a fruit he must have gotten from a market far away. One day though, it’s a small package with a note. Inside is a rock. It’s ordinary on one side, but the other sparkles and shines in the sunlight. The note says  _ ‘Your hair.’  _ I laugh and hang it from an orange strand of yarn in my bay window.

For a week after this, I do not see him. I visit the farmer down the forest path. He hasn’t seen him either, but sends me away with some soft cheese. (My treat, he says.) I tell myself that I do not worry, but when I pass the creek on my way home, I linger and glance across to the field. The creek bubbles, and I go home.

I’m hanging tomatoes to dry on my back porch when I see him again. I feel tears well up when he walks down the forest path by my house but I push them down and instead yell at him. I immediately regret it. He chuckles, uncertain. I notice he’s carrying a large bag. My heart softens. I pull him through my back door and pour him a cup of water with berries floating in it. He gulps it down gratefully (it is quite a hot day) and waits for me to sit before explaining his absence. He’s been down in the town with the trading posts. His bag is full of things from far away, cloths and foods and even a small bundle of eggs. I am still angry. He could have told me before leaving; I tell him as much. He only shrugs and picks his bag up again. He leaves without another word.

I cry that night.

He comes again to my home, but I do not open the door. He has proven that I have grown to care for him much more than he has for me.

He comes again each morning, but I do not let him in. One day, he doesn’t leave as quickly. He talks. I don’t let it on, but I listen. He says he wished to surprise me, but that I would need to let him in to get the surprise. I don’t let him in. He sighs aloud and says he’s leaving it on the doorstep, but I need to get it quickly or it may disappear. He leaves and I immediately pull the door open. On the step is one of the eggs he had shown me, but there is a large crack down the side. Inside is something bashing its head rather violently, so I press on the crack. 

It is a duckling, and she screams at me. I fill a bowl with warm water and help her clean herself from the egg’s innards. When she’s dry, I examine her. For the most part, she appears to be an average duckling, but she has a bright tuft of orange feathers about her neck. I spend the next few days (during which he doesn’t visit) determining a name for the duckling. I settle on Marigold, a flower I have heard is as vibrant as the sun.

I think of him.

The farmer comes down the road and says the crayfish catcher is waiting for me. I concede, and bring Marigold with me to go visit him. We cross the creek and he’s there, on the rocking chair by his front door waiting. He glows when he notices me, and I feel something bubble up from my stomach to my cheeks, like the creek had so many days ago. He says he noticed what I’d done with the rock and the yarn, he asks why I chose orange. I look away. I know he knows why. When I look at him again, his smile is brighter than before. He reaches out to meet Marigold. She likes him. It’s not surprising, they are both so bright and beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

I see him again a few days later. He’s sitting in my garden, eating all of my ripest fruits, and I can’t help but feel endeared. Why am I not upset? Marigold peeps at me and we step outside. She hops into the small pond I carved out of the ground near the tomatoes, and I settle onto the stone bench in front of him. He’s bright, again. He sits next to me and pulls my sunhat from my head and presses a hand to my hair, at the base of my neck. I breathe out slowly. His hand is soft. I breathe again. He smells of the creek, a bit dirty but mostly flowery and green. I close my eyes and he runs his hand through my hair. It’s only a moment.

It feels like an hour.

I cling to the feeling of his hands when I lay in bed that night and allow myself to wonder. What would it feel like against my skin? What would he do if I let him? Would he press it to my cheeks, leaving behind a trace of his brightness? Would he take my rough, soily hands in his? Would he run them through water, cleaning off the dirt?

He does something else.

He takes me to a part of the creek I’ve never seen. It’s a cave under a big, old tree, where the water’s deep and cool. He pulls off his coat and shirt and trousers and boots and climbs down to the place where the roots are exposed. He jumps into the water, and it’s bright, bright like him. He gestures for me to join. I strip as he did, but am nervous and only dip my feet in and far as I can feel the ground. He tells me to relax, and says he’ll teach me to swim. His hands are on me back and on my chest and they’re warm so warm and I have forgotten how to breathe. He mistakes it all for nervousness and assures me he won’t let anything happen to me, but it’s a bit of time before I come down from the shock. He guides me through floating and treading water and a basic stroke that I forget the name of because his hands are on my thigh and my shoulder and I have never felt anything like this.

We dry in the afternoon sun and he catches some crayfish to cook later. I tell him he can cook them in my house, and he stuns me with another bright, sunshine grin. He shows me how to boil the crayfish and crack the shells and I follow along as best I can. I make a berry tart while they cook. We eat well. It’s dark when we finish.

I only stutter once when I invite him to stay the night.

He sleeps in my bed, I sleep in a hammock downstairs. I’m up with the sunrise and Marigold is on my heels while I make bagels and cream cheese and salmon for breakfast. He wakes up late and doesn’t dress until after eating. I would have asked him to stay for lunch, but he needs to change clothes, so I allow him to leave.

It’s a rainy afternoon and I’m inside savouring a mug of tea with a biscuit from the tin I try to make last a few months. Drops of water race down my window. I wonder what he’s up to. Perhaps he’s knees deep in the creek, or maybe he’s at home having some tea just as I am. What am I feeling? I pull a well-read book from my shelf and flip through to a passage on love. It says love is a sacred feeling, a feeling that thrums through the body and the soul, a personal feeling that can not ever truly be shared. I decide it must not be love I feel, because what I feel is something I want the world to know, something bright and exciting and something I look forward to every moment. I replace the book.

It’s a grey day now, but not cold or raining. I have a small fire cooking a stew of potatoes and tomatoes and carrots, and I’m warming a loaf of bread nearby. The back door opens and he comes inside with a jug. He says it’s a sweet wine, and rummages through my cabinets for a pair of cups. He curls up next to me on the couch, and it’s warm. I’m warm.

I fall sick one day. He brings me tea and soup and a blanket warmer than any of the ones I own. He says he’ll be right back, and returns with a book I’ve never seen before. He reads to me as I rest, and when I’m nearly asleep, I hear something new. This book says love is strong and warm and exciting, and that it feels like something that you’re so full of you could burst. I sink into sleep’s arms with a new awareness.

One day, we collect pretty rocks together. There are a few bright blue ones, lots of stripy ones, but one special one. He says it’s hardened red clay, but I grab it anyways. I leave it on my table and go to feed Marigold. When I come back, it’s gone, and he points to my bay window. I glance over. It hangs from a silvery strand of yarn next to the shiny rock with the orange yarn. I turn back to him. He only smiles.

He stays over more often now. I’m content to sleep in the hammock and get up to cook, but one night we fall asleep together on the sofa. He wakes up before me this time, but I wake up soon after and apologise profusely. His smile falters when I do. I don’t understand why, but he doesn’t sleep at my house much after that. I feel a bit hollow.

I see him talk to the farmer, and something uncomfortable twists inside me. I huff and I go home and I cry. Marigold rests her head on my hand.

I’m still crying when the door opens. I feel warm hands in my hair again, and I cry harder. I don’t think he gets it. He stays, though, and hands me pieces of bread and makes me sip some water. I wake up the next day and he’s curled in my lap, exactly where we were. I almost jerk away, but he seems so peaceful. When he does wake up, it seems like he’s waiting for something, but whatever it is doesn’t happen, and he nods.

“You understand, then?”

I don’t.

He sighs and pulls himself up. He tells me to come to his house for lunch. I agree, and he leaves. I feel sluggish in my routine. My berry preserves seem flavourless, my tea tastes weak. I drag myself across the creek, and knock on his door. He greets me with a quiet smile. It’s not bright. It’s not him. We eat in silence, and he grabs the book he had the day I was sick. He reads the passage again. I blink at him.

“I love you,” he says.

I fall from my chair.

Warm hands touch my waist and my legs and I relax. He’s strong, I remember. I ask him to say it again.

“I love you.”

Again.

“I love you.”

I pull him to my chest. I breathe. He smells of book pages and pressed linen and just a bit like the creek. We embrace for a moment, it feels like an hour.

“I love you too.”

The sunshine and the radiance returns, and everything is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you want more short works like this, or if something about this is something you enjoy. I'm open to many possibilities!  
> -art


End file.
